


The World Will Never Be Quiet

by SnowF



Series: Dead winds' and spent waves' riots [2]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Age Difference, Arsonists are getting better, Arsons, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Depression, Dubious Morality, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Fires, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Heroin to villain, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, On the Run, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sugar Bowl - Freeform, Volunteers are even stupider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-04-21 05:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14277573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowF/pseuds/SnowF
Summary: [Dear V, K & P. I know you did not want this to be published, but it is great time everyone know what happens to C.D and L.S - for the sake of their name. For my own sake. They deserve this much, and VFD deserves that final blow. Forgive me if you can. Forgive B.S too. We want to make things right for all those that VFD destroyed. And destroy it. At last.]





	1. Introductory Note

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer & spoilers : This memoir describes events that happened just after the first memoir written by C.D, and long after L.S books. The reader shall be advised not to read it, of course. If they really desire to engage in such a sorry experience, then they shall be advised to read C.D's first memoir first.
> 
> Rating : T, I know C.D wouldn't have wanted some innocent eyes to read this.
> 
> A/N : Though C.D didn't leave any indication as to what she wanted to make of this memoir, the reader shall know that the same warnings as the one that applied to her first memoir still apply here: English is not the editor's mother language, so she may or may not have done spelling/grammar/conjugation/syntax mistakes.

I didn't think I would have to write again. I didn't think I would have a reason to do it – I didn't think I would owe anything of the sort to anyone else after what happened with the sugar bowl. I didn't think I would do anything comparable to what I did back in the High Court again.

But I did. This is no longer about you Lemony – but you know that, don't you? There's someone else now, someone new. She's with you as I write these lines. I hope she is, anyway, or else something is going on and you didn't find useful to tell me.

It is still a bit about you, though. It always was since the beginning. If Olaf knew how to read, it would also be about him. And Jacques, always Jacques. You three shaped me in your own way, and it's because and thanks to you that I did what I did. But you're all collateral damages – this time, I don't really write for myself or for getting me out of jail. I write for her. For her to know who I am, who we are. Maybe she'll forgive us, if we have to vanish before we have the time to tell her everything.

So if you ever read these lines, Ellis, know that they're for you. Know that everything, everything I did was for you as soon as you broke into my life. Our lives. You're everything I wish I was, you have everything I wish I had. For now, at least.

You will probably discover things about me in these pages – you'll see that I am not perfect. Ask the Baudelaire for the first part of this tale, if you want to understand what brought me here, what happened to me and where you come from. I hope you'll forgive me – I hope you're strong enough to understand me.

Mind the eye, Ellis. Mind the Volunteers, the Felony of this world and any suspicious Deflagration.

Or don't, and follow my dreadful path.


	2. I - Where the hunters becomes the prey

**I – Where the hunter becomes the prey**

It took a whole year for the Baudelaire to come back from their island – though I had no idea they'd spent their time on an island, when they landed on Briny Beach. Plenty of things happened over this past year. Amongst other things, Hotel Denouement had turned into Hotel Hope, VFD had scattered all across the country, left leaderless on both sides by the Hotel's fire, Olaf had reappeared, pretended he didn't know how, to disappear again, and Volunteers had decided to crawl back in the shadows.

What about me? Well, I did what I did best. I messed around, kept an eye of both sides of the Schism trying to get them both to forget me. Pointless task, really: over the course of the year, people had started to theoriee and the most widely shared theory wanted me to have kept the sugar bowl's content.  _Yes,_ they still were focused on this damned sugar bowl. You would think they found another McGuffin, or maybe they focused on trying to get their organization back together, but no, no.  _VFD has always been senseless, you can't expect much from its members._

Especially as there was nothing left of those who actually knew what was inside – except one of them. And he never doubted me, though I probably would have if I'd been him. But anyway. Lemony has always been a complicated man and our future would only confirmed an already very firmly established fact.

All this blabbering to tell you how much the trap I was in was slowly closing. If I'd enjoyed relatively peaceful months right after my exploit in front of the High Court, I was now wanted by almost everyone inside and outside the country – some wanted me because of my alleged crimes, some because of my actual crimes, but most of those who actually knew  _who I am_  were running after me to find the sugar bowl's content. And just so we're clear, I didn't have it. It burnt with the actual bowl in the High Court's fire. That I didn't start. Contrary to some others,  _you got the idea._

Lemony and I didn't spend much time together after we made sure that Baudelaire were alive and kicking. To be honest, we were both responsible for this situation – each time we actually met, we separated straight away less than a week after. I'd love to say we were only careful, that we tried not to attract too much attention, but since I wasn't really wanted until this point and he was still supposed to be dead, that would be a lie.  _Again._ No, I actually really liked this game. I only found him when he wanted to be found, and I only let him…  _Enough lies._ He always found a way to get his hand on me whenever he wanted to. Or when he thought I was either in danger or in the position of being dangerous. In this case, it was more the former.

I was in a motel, at the rim of the hinterlands. I could have seen the city's lights from my window if I hadn't been too busy to look. Busy doing what, you'll ask? Busy completing the second Snicket file. As I wrote earlier, Lemony and I had managed to gather and compile every pages of the lost Snicket file – the first one, thanks to Jacques' draft papers. We added our own documents and evidences related to fires Jacques never got to witness.  _Lucky man._

In order to do so, Lemony went back to Heimlich Hospital while I went back to the Mortmain Mountains HQ – believe me, it was an ordeal. Don't ask about the 667 Dark Avenue, you already know why I didn't go back there. Lemony did, but he only told me when we destroyed the evidences he had collected against me. You never know, right? In his case, he was keeping them until he was sure I would not betray him. Or try to. I can't blame him.

But anyway, I was putting the file together when I heard knocks on my door. I wasn't expecting anyone, so I ignored them. But it was Lemony, so he knocked without pausing and I couldn't let him do so without catching all my neighbours' attention. I carefully and silently walked to the door, looked through the peephole and sighed. I opened the door and didn't have the time to say anything before he broke into my room.

"Well, hello Lemony, glad to see you're fine.

\- Spare me, Cassandre. Since when are the Baudelaire chasing you?

\- Wait, what?"

I blinked and watched him close the windows' blinders and check their locks. I hadn't seen him in months, something like three or four months – maybe less, I can't remember. He finally stopped moving around and put his satchel on my desk. He rummaged through his stuff and grabbed a bunch of photographs. He handed them to me.

I was on most of them – but not alone. There was at least one of the three Baudelaire orphans on each picture, somewhere in the background. An amateur work, really. They weren't even disguised or hidden. The pictures had been taken a few days ago when I was still in the city. Did I already say I am absolutely not attentive? Well now you know. I'm a bit better now, but Lemony is still very much better than me.

"I… I didn't know they…

\- And you still wonder why they still want you dead." He sighed and took the pictures back. "VFD asked them to find you. I came across a Dispatch.

\- They really think…

\- Obviously."

I bit my lips. I was chased – I was a prey. Unofficially at least, and the Baudelaire were nearby. Evidently they didn't manage to follow me to the motel, but they were probably trying to. I can't describe how I felt knowing that. It's not that I considered them to owe me a favour. After all, I hadn't done anything for them and brought them more troubles than good. And since neither Lemony or I welcomed them back in the country, they probably only heard of me (Snicket was still dead, as far as they knew) through new and stupid Volunteers. Well, more stupid than the former ones. Let's just say they probably didn't make my eulogy.

But still, I felt betrayed. I helped them run away from Hotel Denouement, didn't I? They were alive thanks to me.  _And thanks to Olaf, yeah, that too._ Well you can't always get what you want. I raised my eyes to Lemony's and realized I wasn't the only one embarked in this mess. My feeling of betrayal, still very much vivid, mixed with concern.

"Do they know about you?

\- About…" He blinked and looked like he was going to laugh. "Why do you ask?

\- You've managed to stay dead until now so I was just…

\- Worried?"

He arched an eyebrow and I suddenly felt stupid for even wondering. The point of him being in my motel room wasn't to blame me – he would have done it by now if it was the case. The point was to make sure I was fine. I wasn't supposed to wonder if my carelessness had revealed him. That just wasn't like me, was it?

 _But yes,_ I was worried. Happy ? Lemony was part of my life, even only periodically, and we'd promised each other to keep the other around for a while. I couldn't pretend I wasn't relieved every time he came back, and I couldn't pretend I didn't care about his safety. It's much easier now to accept it since I have you, Ellis, as an excuse – but the truth is that he was the only ally I had left. The only thing, the only one I had left. And I knew that every day I spent with him were better days, and I knew that I could only sleep soundly next to him. Lemony, you don't need me to tell you that you slowly replaced Jacques' now faded memory as my lighthouse. It was true then, and even truer now.

"Sure, whatever," I groaned, my pride urging to me change the subject. "That's not an answer though.

\- The answer's no.

\- Good for you." I crossed my arms on my chest and sat on the bed. "To think we spent a whole year running after them…

\- You can't blame them for not knowing, can you?"

I groaned again. I should be used to it – Volunteers always disappoint me, even though the Baudelaire were a special case. Still are. But until this day, they were a constant in my life. I had to make sure they were fine, even though I usually never did anything to make sure they were. And I was chasing them. Not the other way around.

I ran a hand across my face. In times like this, I always wonder where I made the obviously bad decision that led to this situation. But then again, the Baudelaire were special, a word that here means that we had a very complicated and very confusing relationship. The kind of relationship that grows twice as complicated when you think you made it easier – like a hydra, if you please.

"I thought the file would end it all. Free me, free you from what we did.

\- You've never been this hopeful.

\- For good reasons, evidently." I sighed. "I was so busy working on the file that…

\- Whining does not suit you."

I shrugged. A part of me was obviously down, worried and annoyed that, after all this time, I was still wanted. And wanted to the point that VFD sent  _orphans_  after me. Children, even. Really, I didn't even know what was supposed to happen if they found me – imprisonment wasn't much of a temptation for yours truly.

Another part, however, was rather thrilled by the thought. Remember, I'd spent almost a year running in every direction, setting buildings on fire and trying to escape a certain death. Even if it broke and tired me, and even if I was at first glad to be able to rest without risking my life, it was getting boring to spend another year… Writing. But this part, as you remember, is fascinated by fire, murders and the like.  _Obviously not the friendliest part._ I didn't realize I was smiling – it's Lemony's sigh that got me out of my thoughts. His sigh and his gaze, half disapproving and half amused. Who thought he was lame? Not me.

"Cassandre, do not think about what I know you're thinking about.

\- And what I am thinking about?

\- About something you shouldn't even be starting to think about.

\- Oh please," I sighed, trying not to laugh. "You're thinking about it too.

\- That does not mean it's a good thing to think a… I'm serious, don't laugh."

 _Oh, Lemony._ You try so hard to be a serious, grave, stern man. You've never been any of these three things, except maybe in your books. You dramatic, sassy, arrogant jerk. Even though I was the only one laughing, I could see his eyes gleaming and the corners of his lips twitching. I stood up and put my hands on his shoulders. Tried to, anyway, and failed – he was taller than me and not helping me at all. So I put them on his upper chest, while he kept his hands in his pockets and his haughty expression. But I knew better.

"Why can't you simply enjoy peace while you can?" he asked. "Why must you revel in disaster?

\- Well, maybe because I'm a disaster myself? Don't be so dramatic, Snicket. Or…" I chuckled again. "Maybe you're worried too?

\- How did you say that? Sure, whatever?

\- Illiteracy does not suit you."

Running in full circles – that's what we do best. He frowned, and I smiled. I know what you're thinking: why am I telling you this ? I was rather happy, good for me, I didn't deserve it but  _sure, whatever._

Well, it's exactly for this reason. Just as I wrote about the last time my father and I spent time together without killing each other, I'm telling you everything about my last hours of peace with Lemony. Plus, his arrival set the beginning of another series of dreadful events. He kept his stern face for a while and eventually put his hands on my arms, sighing.

"All I'm saying is, be careful. Just because they asked  _them_  to find you doesn't mean you're not in danger.

\- I would even say I'm worse off. Why them? They're not the kind of Volunteers to accept to lead anyone to an early grave.

\- They didn't tell them what they would do to you once in their hands." His face darkened. "I don't even know myself.

\- I feel much better now. Thanks."

His anguish scared me more than anything else about this situation. He'd come all the way to this lost motel to tell me I wasn't safe anymore and didn't even try to pretend it was nothing. That too wasn't like him.

But you don't get to spend months with someone and don't care about his well-being, as I said. I'm rather talented in hiding I care, and so is he, but if we were already worried back then, just imagine how worried we are now. It's paralyzing. Inconvenient. But that's the way it is – you can't help it. And this feeling would never leave me from this day forward. I suppose it didn't leave him either.

"You should probably leave, then.

\- What for?

\- I don't know, maybe because you don't want to be involved with a wanted criminal?

\- They're searching for a lone woman, not for a woman  _and_  a man. It'll cover your tracks if I stay.

\- At the expense of yours." I frowned. "Since when do you play the knight in shining armour with me?

\- I didn't get you out of the High Court for you to be executed without trial."

I gulped and lowered my eyes. It is something to know you're wanted and hated by a whole organization – it is whole another to know a misstep will lead you to a certain death. It suddenly wasn't exciting anymore. I liked the idea of running from VFD, but I didn't like the idea of running from my death. Without realizing it, I clenched my fists on his shirt. He slipped his arms around my back and held me against him.

It felt bitter and ashy, to be held like this. You know, it's the same kind of hug as the one you receive when you know you'll get a bad mark at your last exam, or the one you receive when you're fired. It wants to do good, wants you to feel better, wants to make you know you're not alone. But in the end, you're alone – that's exactly what it means. You get a hug because you can't get anything else. No help, no escape. A hug, and you still have to face whatever problem you have.

"I came with the taxi," he finally said, stroking my back. "We leave tomorrow.

\- Where do we go?

\- Everything in its own time." He released me and took off his jacket. "If I have to drive all day tomorrow, I need to sleep before I even think about our destination.

\- You don't make any sense, Lemony.

\- That's adequate then."

As if the whole situation didn't make any sense – for me, it was all rather clear. Karma was finally hitting back. He saw that I wasn't convinced at all, I wasn't trying to hide it. So he came back to cradle me, as if it would change anything. At first I stiffened, trying to get him to leave me alone, but then I gave in and smiled as I followed his moves. It was rare enough to have him so tender. I couldn't just reject him, could I?

Do I really need to tell you what followed? It'd been months since the last time we saw each other. I was desperate – desperate for intimacy, desperate for someone to hold me and warm me, desperate for someone to hug me because I couldn't get anything else. And he was only too happy to oblige.  _So much for sleeping._

I'd like to say that what happened belongs to us, only us, but what happened this night triggered everything that led me to this – writing another memoir to, again, justify what I did. So I suppose it belongs to history, much like everything Lemony and I lived. So I'll keep the details secret. Because at least a part of this must stay ours, and only ours.


	3. II - Where you can't keep a promise

**II – Where you can't keep a promise**

I don't write as much as I should, but things get more complicated every each times I step outside. Last time I tried to make things better, it ended up in a blaze.  _Again._ I suppose I should just stay away, hidden and safe – but I can't help it, right? I have to mess around. And ruin every hope I have left of atonement. But anyway, enough digressions about my present.

As planned, Lemony and I left the motel early the following day. We drove for a long time, enough to get lost in the hinterlands. We were completely alone. There were only miles and miles of nothingness around us. We were planning to reach the border, cross it and keep low for a while. Until what, you ask ? Until some poor soul got mistaken for me.  _You didn't really believe we cared, right?_

But for now, we were just driving through the hinterlands and for ages we found nothing, until we finally found… Well, ruins. Ruins of a certain Carnival, left untouched for a year and a half. We had no reason to stop, really. But curiosity killed the cat. In our case, though, satisfaction only killed it again for good measure.

I was wounded, back when the Caligari Carnival's episode happened, so I don't know for sure how it looked like before its demise. Lemony told me it was already half-dead, and I can only trust his point of view since I never asked anyone else about it. From what I saw, it looked like a glimpse of my own personal hell: ashes, some stuff still mostly intact, some stuff that  _looked_  intact but would turn into dust as soon as touched. And this silence. This deafening, terrible silence that meant so much more than all the ashes of the world.

Burnt places all have the same aura. Despair, destruction, sorrow. It looks like death – smells like death. Sounds like death. I wonder if us arsonists have the same aura. Probably, otherwise we wouldn't find allies. Because death, despair, destruction and sorrow are all attractive. Don't deny it. Don't even try. If you're reading this, if you even know about me and if you're not Ellis, then you know this feeling. You know it  _because_  of me. This attraction toward car crashes. This attraction you feel when you read about murders, church collapse. Don't worry, noble people love to say they know nothing about it too. It's okay, I'm not judging.  _I am a church collapse._

But still we walked amongst the ruins. From time to time, Lemony or I grabbed something to add a few lines to our file. But none of us dared talk. I don't know about him, but I couldn't stop thinking about the 667 Dark Avenue. Was it this desolated? Was it better? Worse? I never got to check. They demolished it a while ago, and there's no trace left of what I did. Nothing. As if people didn't die – and if my father didn't die there. As if I didn't destroy what remained of my life at this point. It's anticlimactic, really. I always thought I would find some proves of everything that happened, if ever I came back. That it would be some sort of gaping wound, a huge scar to remind me the past was real. The way my own scars remind me of the past, whenever I find myself in front of a mirror or a very shiny closet door.

"Why did they leave everything like this?" I finally asked, pushing away my memories and regrets. "Even the Arsonists, there are plenty of evidence here.

\- They probably didn't have the time to come back. Things escalated quite quickly after that.

\- I suppose." A silent. My memories urged me to ask. "Have you seen…

\- I have."

Of course he had – you don't collect evidence if you don't go on the crime scene. I bit my lips and stopped next to what should have been a tent before flames ate it away. I felt uneasy. It wasn't even the fist ruins of arson I stepped into. I had been to Heimlich Hospital. But it wasn't the same. It wasn't  _mine._ And I wasn't expecting him to say yes – let alone to immediately know what I was talking about. But Lemony is like this. He never knows what to say when he has to, but when he always knows  _what he shouldn't say._ And says it. Obviously. The ghost of a smile floated on his lips for a second or two.

"Time doesn't make it better, does it?

\- Nothing will ever make it better, or even less worse." My weariness didn't wash away. "We should go. There's nothing left to do here.

\- Why the urge?

\- Big news, I don't particularly like places ruined by fire. And I have a weird feeling.

\- Word that here means…"

At first, I thought it was because he knew how much I hated when he twisted my words, when he pretended to give them their true meaning. But then his eyes narrowed and lost their humour. He gestured me to follow him behind a pile a rumble. It took me all the comprehension skill of my brain to understand  _why_  we were hidden.

I only heard footsteps at first, then voices. I didn't recognize them, but that didn't mean much. I'd spent more than a year avoiding every kind of social interaction with strangers, so I didn't get to meet many people outside of those I couldn't just avoid. Let alone new Volunteers or new Arsonists, even if I spotted a few of them when I sneaked in their receptions. But yes, the whole point was to  _not_  meet them while I prepared the second Snicket file. How did I know they were from VFD? They looked like they owned the place. Looked rather cultured. Intelligent. Kind, I suppose. But mostly, they looked stupid.

"Who are they?

\- New Volunteers.

\- What the hell are they doing here?

\- Scavenging the place before VFD decides to get rid of everything." He never stopped to watch them. "They did the same for the Baudelaire's house. And yours."

Pointless, since Lemony, Jacques and probably Olaf at some point went there. But anyway. I was going to laugh and mock them when Lemony gestured me to keep quiet. I couldn't see the threat. Stupid as they were, what danger could they represent? If anything, they were searching for clues, not for me. And I wasn't alone, Lemony made sure of that. So I frowned, and waited for them to turn away to grab his shoulder and turn him in my direction. And I knew, obviously I knew, that he was plotting something I was going to hate. God was I right.

There's some sort of a common theme with the Snicket siblings. Even when they pretended not to care, or, like Lemony still does, pretended to be  _bad_ , they always had a side-thought for moral, ethics. When Lemony acts wrongly, he knows he acts wrongly, which can be even worse than not knowing. He does it willingly, knowingly. He forsakes his nobility every each time he decides to cross the line. On the other hand, when I act wrongly… Most of the time I don't even wonder whether or not I'm acting wrongly or rightly. I just act. Wrongly. And wonder afterward, if ever. And at this moment, Lemony's mind was making a very dangerous decision, at least for him, because of the said moral and ethics.

"You know how to drive, right?

\- Well, you taught me.

\- You take the car, and you leave.

\- I… What?" I blinked, unsure I understood what he meant. "Why?

\- If they find you, you're dead meat Cassandre. Quite literally.

\- So much for keeping together then."

His eyes darkened. Good for him. It's embarrassing to write, but I felt betrayed again. He promised me he would be there for me – these were not his exact words but anyway. That's what he meant. I promised it too. And I needed him to run away, but not only. I needed him to help me with the file, to publish it, to prove VFD they were wrong since the very beginning. And I needed him with me, period. Why would he give up on me this easily?

I would lie if I said I didn't think about Jacques for a second. I hadn't thought about him for weeks, but he came back because one of my greatest fear back then and still now, perhaps even more now, was to lose him the way I lost Jacques. Definitively. I don't know if he knew before this day, though I suspect he did, but he understood immediately. He grabbed my shoulders too as if I were a child throwing some tantrum, but he did it so carefully, almost tenderly.

"If they see us together, they may not recognize us but they will report it. And answer questions. And our cover will be blown.

\- And what if they see you alone?

\- I'm dead, for all they know. There's barely anyone left in VFD to remember I ever existed, let alone to recognize me.

\- You said you wouldn't leave me, Lemony." My voice was ridiculous, childish. "I thought  _I_  was the liar."

He smiled. I didn't want him to smile – I wanted him to be hurt. Hurt the way I was. He caressed my cheek and put his keys in my hand. I could have thrown them at this face, but what for? I would have caught their attention and it would all be in vain. So I bit my lips and stared at them. And I nodded. What choice did I have? What he was doing was called saving. Me, in this case. You're supposed to thank your saviour, aren't you? It was hard enough not to selfishly scream against him, so thanking him was out of question.

"You survive just fine without me. You'll make do.

\- I swear to you, Snicket, if you're not back in a month…

\- You'll retaliate, I know. I wouldn't expect anything else." His eyes were gleaming. "Now leave."

He didn't give me a second to whine and walked out of our pile of rubble. He left me with the keys in my hand and a sudden urge to run. But I waited for the Volunteers to notice him. Then only I ran. Stealthy, as much as I could, without looking back. I jumped in the car, turned the keys and left in a cloud of dust, my bag on the backseats, my eyes locked on the road in front of me. My heart left behind in the ruins of the Carnival.

I was alone. It wasn't the first time, I'd been alone for most of the year. Aloneness had been my life ever since my father's abduction. But I always knew Lemony was around, as fine as I was, as free as I was, and I knew he would come to me at anytime if I needed it. But now he was gone, doing whatever he thought necessary to protect me, maybe even following those Volunteers. What if they understood what he was doing? What if they locked him up? What if they got rid of him? How would I even know? How would I see him again?

A more insidious thought crossed my mind as I was driving toward the refuge we used to stay in, back when we were running after the Baudelaire.  _What if he never came back?_ For whatever reason – death, imprisonment, unwillingness to come back, the result would be the same. Me, being alone. Forever.

Well, alone. At that time I thought I was, at least. Turns out I already wasn't alone. But hey, let's not burn bridges. All I knew was that I was afraid and on the run – two things I didn't miss from my life before the High Court. Before Lemony. I wasn't afraid, when I was with him. Too many things happened for me to be afraid. I did too many awful things to be afraid. There was too much blood in our wake for me to be afraid – too much ashes too. I was the one people were afraid of.

But now I was afraid, because I was the one being chased. And I was alone with myself and all the consequences that went with it. As I was driving too fast to our refuge, thoughts rushed in my head and nothing could stop them. Guilt, fear, disgust, anger, regrets, crushed hopes, it didn't make sense but it all revolved in my head, around my head, all around me. I felt surrounded, trapped in the car like a deer between lights, or a wolf in his collar-trap. I could feel it closing down on my neck.

In another time, another life, I would have panicked. Stopped the car in the middle of nowhere, cried my eyes out, cried myself to sleep. And probably ruined Lemony's efforts. But in this time, in this sorry excuse of a life I was living, I drove the car. And I didn't stop until I saw the comforting figure of the refuge. I parked behind the tiny house, turned the engine off, and closed my eyes.

For some reason we keep coming back to this refuge, where everything began. At least, everything between Lemony and I. Where I almost bled to death quite a few times. It's not even a safe place, and we both know that. Not safer than any other refuge around Mortmain mountains at least. But still we keep coming back to this ugly little shack and its bathroom I know only too well. When I entered it, I recognized everything from the kitchen to the bunk beds.

When I entered the bathroom and sat in the shower cabin, I felt incredibly safe for a second. Because when I closed my eyes, I remembered Lemony coming and drenching his shirt. I remembered his words, the convoluted way he had to tell me I wasn't responsible for what my father and Jacques were. That their deaths were not worsened by the fact that they considered themselves good people, noble people. I remembered the way we just stayed there, dripping.

_But he wouldn't come._ And he wouldn't say anything convoluted. He wouldn't say anything at all, because he wasn't there. I doubled over, my knees on my chest, and took a deep breathe. I was alone, so completely alone. Another deep breathe.  _Get over it, Cassandre,_ I urged myself.  _You've been alone before._ Yes I had. But it had nothing to do with before.  _There's no difference. Get over it._

Another deep breathe. I stood up and walked out of the shower, of the bathroom. I went back to the car to take my bag when I realized Lemony's was still there. I stared at it for a while. I had no idea what was inside, and I'm still not sure of its whole content, and I left it alone for now. Don't get me wrong, I went through it at some point. Just not at this point in time. I stuffed it under the seats and grabbed mine. I had to work on the file. At least do something productive, since I was free and he was not. At least do some good of the time he stole for me.


	4. III - Where dead people can't stay dead

**III – Where dead people can't stay dead**

I'd been driving through Mortmain Mountains for days already, but I couldn't keep strolling the mountains endlessly – I needed gasoline. I didn't stay in the refuge for long, it wasn't safe to stay in one place for more than a day or two. And I couldn't help thinking about the other times we went there, so I just took the car and drove through the mountains. It was comfortable up there, but the nearest gas station was at the rim of the hinterlands, near Last Chance General Store.

Now I know what you're thinking. Why did I stay in the country since I was wanted? Well, two things for you to remember. First, VFD isn't exactly located in one place. They have agents everywhere and I wouldn't be able to hide from them as efficiently in a country I knew nothing about… Especially as they were at their weakest here, but probably not outside the borders. I had more chances of survival here than anywhere else, at least so long as I was alone.

Second, I was searching for Lemony. Of course I was, what were you thinking? He still had not contacted me yet. I wasn't worried per se but… Okay, I was. But it was legitimate. As far as I knew, he could have in a cell or a coffin, and I couldn't get my hand on any Dispatch. The system was broken, but we usually managed to intercept one or two. Even using the old device from the Valley of Four Drafts HQ, I didn't manage to get any. And it didn't really comfort me, for rather obvious reasons.

The only way I had to stop myself from overthinking was music. That's common sense, I know. Lemony had tons of jazz records in his car, most of them being Duke Ellington's. And they soothed me. Lulled me to sleep, if you can call the few hours I dozed through sleeping. It's clearer now why Duke Ellington and not someone else. It became clearer a few months afterward, actually, but let's keep to the timeline. Jazz had become my new best friend and it went down Mortmain Mountains with me. Being back at sea level instantly had me tensed and I would have driven back to the mountains if not for the stupid gas.

Experience proved I should have. Once at the station, I grabbed the nozzle and put it in the tank opening, hoping no one would come. I was wearing a hideous wig and ill-fitting clothes that made me look like an actual fugitive.  _You're never safer than when everybody sees you,_ Lemony said. Rich, coming from a man supposed to be dead. But it's not for lack of other paradoxes with him, you're starting to get it. I simply didn't put any effort in my appearance, because I wasn't supposed to. The picture VFD was circulating was old, and I didn't look like the young woman smiling to the camera anymore, if I ever really looked like that outside of the picture.

"You need help ma'am?"

I jumped in surprise and released the nozzle. It loudly fell between the intruder and I. He stared at me in disbelief and kneeled to grab it. He was the station attendant, at least I believe he was, and probably saw me struggling with the nozzle from the tiny shop next to the pumps. I sighed and shook my head.

"Sorry for that," I groaned. "I didn't see you coming.

\- It's okay, but there's no need to be this jumpy." He shrugged. "Almost look like you're scared of something.

\- Lost in my thoughts, rather."

My reply may have been harsher than necessary – but hey, you never know. VFD wasn't in the general public's good books, let alone the Arsonists for obvious reasons. And there's this something, this feeling that revolves around us and makes us recognizable and vulnerable. I never really managed to get my finger on what it is, but it probably has something to do with the way we behave and talk. That's even truer for Volunteers, though. The man was probably reading the Daily Punctilio and its flood of lies, and last time I checked, I was still portrayed in it as a dangerous lunatic. I finally smiled and nodded when he asked me if I still needed gas. He turned to the car and finished to fill the tank.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hoping he would just do the filling and leave me alone. It's only when he was done almost done that I realized he could be useful. I looked around and spotted the big poster announcing the newspaper latest edition. As usual ever since the Baudelaire's disappearance, it was releasing a brand new theory regarding their whereabouts. They apparently disguised themselves as hairdressers and killed people in the shampoo section, at least according to some  _Lady Ecotell._ Olaf's former associates were  _really_ bad at the anagram game, but anyway. I don't even think they tried to make their story believable, and yet everyone took it at face value.

"Those orphans again," I groaned. "I thought they were dead.

\- Certainly wish they were. No wonder why young women like you are so scared of everything.

\- For sure." I didn't find useful to add that I was way worse than the said orphans. "You've never see them, have you?

\- No, thank god. Why would I… Wait, why would you ask ?"

He paused and turned his head. My heart jumped. A trail of cold sweat ran down my spine. He frowned and walked closer.  _He was suspicious._ Too suspicious. I tilted my head, pretending to be perfectly fine, and grabbed my knife in my back pocket. I couldn't afford to be recognized. Not with Lemony already deep in VFD's claws, and all of his agents on my back. It wouldn't be the first time I drew blood to save myself. My already ruined conscience would survive it. It did survive, and would survive, much worse, after all. So I kept still, hoping he would not say what I  _absolutely_ didn't want him to say. And that I would be able to leave quickly. Run away.

"You're one of them, aren't you?

\- One of whom?" I asked innocently. I shook my head, and tried something. "I'm not sure I'm who you seem to be sure I am.

\- What?" He frowned, apparently lost. "You writers are all the same, with your complicated words and your sentence no one can understand ! At least the Daily Punctilio is easy to understand and does not make itself smart !

\- I'm not sure I…

\- You're one of their competitors, aren't you? Trying to steal their headlines, you ruthless thieves!"

It does not often happen that I revel in someone's idiocy, but it is one of the very few times it happened. At least at first. Taking my scepticism for guilt, he asked for his money and left as soon as I handed it to him. He walked back to the shop, cursing my name on his way. I blinked a few times before going back to the car, my knife still in my hand. I stuffed it in my pocket and sighed in relief. He wasn't even entirely wrong, but his certainty was… Well. Practical, to say the least. I didn't wait for him to come back and scream at him to leave to do it. It's no wonder why the world is such a wicked place – people just can't see what's under their nose. I'm obviously not wishing this man recognized me, and I'm not wishing to get what's mine, though it would be well-deserved. But in a perfect world, it wouldn't even have come to that, to a child turning into a patricide and arsonist. But who am I to deserve otherwise?

I drove back to the mountains, mocking the man as I felt the heaviness on my shoulders lifting. I turned on the radio and hummed peacefully with the song that played. I was stupid, so stupid. He was the only threat I considered – a terrible one indeed. If you'd been there, Lemony, you would have sabotaged his phone line, just to be sure. I only thought about running away. But that's what I am, right? A runaway. Not a professional survivor, or a former eminent agent of a secret organization versed in complicated sentences, long word and books. And fires, obviously.

Thinking about it, I think life really toyed with me. On one hand, I dare you to give me  _one_  time where I was truly lucky.  _Spoiler alert, you won't._ On the other, though, I have been nothing but lucky my entire life. Always bumped into the right people at the right time – that doesn't mean that neither the people nor the times were good. Just that I survived and got away with things I shouldn't have survived nor got away with. Every damn time. Sweet irony, right? Let's say that in my misfortune I always had the fortune to be saved.

Well, fortune. I don't know if you can really call fortune what happened to me, back in the mountains. Let us fast forward a little, if you please. I stopped near a cave, the one in which the snow scouts went last time they'd come to the mountains. I don't think they exist anymore to be honest, but anyway. There was a fireplace, a few mattresses left, enough for me to stay there a day or two before leaving again. And it was lost enough for anyone to find me… At least, anyone not searching for me. Turns out, it took two days for this anyone to find me.

I was reading through the notes I'd taken about Caligari Carnival and was going to type them when I heard noises around the entrance of the cave. From what I recalled of the few notes I read about the mountains, there weren't many animals living in this area during this period of the year, so at least I understood quickly that it was a someone, and not a something.  _Let's no enter the debate on whether animals are persons, please, we both have better things to do._ Which, in my case, means finding Lemony on a crowded beach as soon as I'm done with this chapter. I seriously need to have a conversation with him about sun and young children and…  _Anyway._

My eternal knife in my hand, I walked closer to the entrance and peeped outside. There was someone. I could hear the footsteps. Heavy, almost drunken footsteps. And I could hear coughing. My first guess was Poe, but what the hell would a banker do in the mountains ? Especially a banker who barely got off a burning Hotel Denouement, and gave up on banking to turn to sculpture.  _Please, don't ask._ I didn't move, and waited for the cougher to come closer.

"Dupin, I know you're there, get out of your hole." The voice was coarse, almost painful to hear. "Dupiiiiiiiiiiin?"

That voice. I thought I would  _never_  hear it again. My eyes opened wide and I blinked. I didn't move, but I let him enter the cave and found myself facing a man supposed to be dead. Or, rather, a man I believed dead. A lanky, skinny, skinnier than I remember at least, man with an unibrow and nasty eyes. A man whose name probably still haunts the Baudelaire's nightmares.

"Olaf? I thought you were…

\- Dead? Well, as you can see I'm fine as ever." He offered me a toothy grin. "But look at you. You're even drearier than before. Missed me, maybe?

\- What are you doing here?"

Lemony and I were not looking for Olaf, when we were searching for the Baudelaire, but we kept an eye on him and he never surfaced back. We deduced he was dead, or as good as dead. As far as I was concerned, I didn't mind the idea, but never really gave it a second thought. Having him in front of me, however, definitely made me rethink the whole thing.

Olaf was never a healthy man, perish the thought, but he looked… Well, he looked older. His skin was grey-ish, tired, and he was almost constantly coughing. His smile was the same, though, and the way he looked at me reminded me of rather bad memories. I frowned. He shrugged.

"Well, you're not exactly discreet, dear Cassandre. The Daily Punctilio has been alerted of the presence of a competitor in the hinterlands." His eyes started gleaming. "Maybe those journalists are too stupid to understand the subtext, but my intelligence is way…

\- Enough. Why are you here?

\- VFD is looking for you. Our old friends the Arsonists are searching for you too. What a great comeback that would be for someone like me to hand you to them.

\- VFD wants you as much as they want me.

\- VFD wouldn't recognize applesauce from dirt."

_Granted._ I tensed, even more than I already was. He didn't seem to have any weapon, but you can never trust Olaf. His eyes were locked in mine, but he gestured the hand that held my knife. I raised it, but didn't release the knife. I couldn't help thinking it would be such a ridiculous headline.  _A hero finally hands over the monstrous Cassandre Dupin!_  What a poor hero he was. What a poor monster I was too. Surprisingly enough, he didn't ask me to give him the knife, he just kept still, staring at me. Coughing, periodically.

One can say many things about Olaf, but he's not as simple as people seem to believe. If he'd been, he would have just snatched me, put me in his car's boot, surrendered me to either the Arsonists or VFD and called it a day. He didn't.

"That's my knife you're holding.

\- Indeed." I shrugged. "What is going on with your voice?

\- I decided to make it deeper. It's more charming, according to ladies.

\- It's not deeper, it's hoarse. It sounds like your throat is coming off every time you speak.

\- Mind your own business, it's serious enough," he retorted, frowning. "Aren't you going to beg me to spare you?"

I raised an eyebrow. He was not going to hand me over to VFD – he wanted something else. Something only I had, otherwise I would already be in jail or something. I smiled and chuckled. He didn't appreciate my good mood and groaned.

"Can't you even fake it?

\- What do you need, Olaf? What is it you're searching for?

\- I'm not searching for anything.

\- Sure," I laughed. "You came all the way up there to threaten me and do nothing. Where are your associates, by the way? Since when are you working solo?

\- Will you shut up?" He now looked really annoyed.  _Touché._ "You and your smartness. It's gonna have you killed, you know."

That or something else, at least I would die a bit better than he did.  _Oups, spoiler._ I'm not keeping the suspense, anyway, it's not my point. Everything happened such a while ago… I didn't say anything. He was beating about the bush, but we were getting there. I think you can guess what he wanted. Why would a man like him chase someone like me? He was obviously not going to use me as a way to atone, he didn't even know  _what_ he would atone for. And if he wasn't surrounded by Arsonists, it meant one of two things; either that he didn't want them to know he was there, or that he didn't go back to them at all. Given that he is partially held responsible for the death of countless Volunteers  _and_  Arsonists, you can easily understand why it was the latter case.

I wasn't tensed anymore. He needed me for something, and I wasn't going to simply give him without using him a bit. I didn't have Lemony anymore, but Olaf could be of some use… To find him.

"The Snicket file. You have it.

\- No I don't." I shook my head, candidly. "It's gone, Olaf, there's no Snicket file anymore.

\- Don't toy with me, Cassandre.

\- Alright, maybe there's one copy left, but I don't have it."

_I did._ Obviously I did. But he didn't need to know. And I wasn't really lying, there was one copy left and it was severed between Lemony and I, to make sure no one would find it as a whole if one of us got caught. So I didn't have it in my bag, indeed.  _In Lemony's, however…_ I saw Olaf furrowing his brow. I couldn't push it too far, or else I would lose his interest. And my life, probably.

"My associate has it. And he's disappeared. Help me find him, and maybe some embers will fall on the file.

\- You think I'll fall for that?

\- I don't think you have the choice." I smiled. "I can convince him not to release it… But I don't know what he'll do while missing."

Guess what ?  _It worked._


	5. IV - Where running away only goes so far

**IV – Where running away only goes so far**

Before I begin this chapter, a few words of advice. Don't  _ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever_ let a bunch of freshly imprinted papers near a child, especially if you put a bottle of water in the hands of the said child. What, you thought I was going to say something deep? Well, I'll let you know that I almost lost everything I already wrote to a sudden and unavoidable flooding, and Lemony almost lost the  _third_ Snicket file to a fall in a bath. I'm not sure I should have written that, though. We're supposed to some sort of monsters, not clumsy parents.

Well, maybe that's the actual reason why I had to write it. If this is supposed to be our legacy, the only legacy we both have… The only legacy I have, so be it, but at least it'll be true to what I am. That's the whole point, to make sure you know who I was outside of rumours and stories. At least I wrote this one.

_Anyway, let's go back to our point._ Say what you want about Olaf, but he is useful when he wants to be. I couldn't bring him to Lemony's car, so I pretended I had to retrieve a few things from a cache to be able to hide a few things inside. I made sure the car itself was hidden, removed from the road, and hid his bag under the tons of clothes he kept in his boot. I removed the file, obviously, and added it to my part. I couldn't afford to leave it here, defenceless, in the middle of the mountains. I was going to leave when I glimpsed the disk case of one of Ellington's records. I stared at it for a few seconds and stuffed it in my bag. Call that sentimentalism if you want, I just didn't feel like abandoning it there.

I can't see the point of telling you everything about our whereabouts. Olaf and I went down the mountains and went back to Caligari Carnival, to find… Well, nothing. VFD had already wiped away every last traces of what happened there. But we found a Dispatch, and on this Dispatch was written the order to bring the intruder  _to the safe place._ As if there was such a thing in this world anymore, but anyway. The new VFD meeting place was Hotel Hope, but it wasn't really a hotel.

Well, it should have been, but given what was underneath, as soon as the Volunteers managed to bounce back on their feet, they seized control of the new hotel and made sure the owner would not allow anyone inside, except of course those they deemed reasonable to allow inside. It's not for lack of trying to find another way, but we were hitting the wall every time we thought we had a lead. We needed to infiltrate the Hotel. We couldn't infiltrate the Hotel.  _We had to infiltrate the Hotel._

The length I went to find you, Lemony. In vain. You always end up being the one finding me. If that's not a romantic thought, really. Olaf was already suspicious, and my eagerness to run after an obscure associate he knew nothing about didn't really help. At all. But he had no other way to make sure the file was not released and it was a way to keep an eye on me. So as you can guess by yourself, he didn't left me any choice and went with me in Hotel Hope, as poorly disguised as ever.  _"I disguised even before your birth, you don't teach an old donkey new tricks."_  I tried to tell him the saying was about a dog, and not a donkey, and that he was ludicrous, but he didn't listen to either one, obviously.

"That hotel is pitiful.

\- What were you expecting? A brand new Hotel Denouement, with dozen of floors in less than a year?

\- Enough with the cleverness, you'll have us spotted.

\- Of course," I groaned. "If your stupid disguise does not sell us before."

I had put efforts in my disguise, really: a wig I never put on, glasses I never used, make-up I never experienced, I  _really_ didn't look like myself. He, on the other hand… Looked like a sicker version of Olaf, with a long blond wig and elephant-bottom pants.  _I swear it's true._ Some ludicrous hippie costume, if you will, and even more ludicrous on him. But what can I say, he wouldn't listen.

I sighed and walked to the entrance. Everything looked smaller than before, except the pond. Given that everything around was smaller, it looked  _huge._ Knowing what was underneath for having scoured it before, it made sense that they kept it. I kept from staring at the water and I entered the lobby. This too was smaller, less busy. I clung onto my backpack and walked to the counter. The groom politely smiled. His smile froze when he saw Olaf.  _No shit._

"Welcome ma'am. And sir.

\- Thank you very much. We'd like two rooms, if that's possible.

\- Two rooms?" Olaf interrupted me. "But  _sweetie_ , you must be…

\- Two rooms. For my  _uncle_  and I."

He looked dagger at my back while the groom was going through its registers. He nodded and grabbed two keys.  _345 and 348._ I had no idea if the hotel still followed the Dewey Decimal classification, and I had no idea how I could ask the question without sounding suspicious. But if I didn't, Olaf would and I was afraid he would be even more tactless than me. I leaned closer to him and lowered my voice, making it a bit more confidential and charming. You do what you must, don't judge.

"It's the first time I come back here, ever since the fire. Have things… Quieted? Did the Very Fine Division of the Hotel change?

\- An old customer, I see." He nodded for himself. "Well, the new owner didn't find suitable to reuse the former system.

\- Thank god," Olaf grinded. "That stupid classification…

\- Were you working here before? I don't recognize you, but maybe I never got to meet you.

\- No, I'm new."

He smiled and handed me the keys. I thanked him and I was going to leave when he cleared his throat. I turned my head and raised an eyebrow. His eyes turned to Olaf who was looking around, annoyed and bored by the whole situation. I nodded and stuffed the keys in his hand.

"You go to the rooms and you look around.

\- Since when do you give the orders here?

\- Since I decided to. Move, or you'll ruin everything." I frowned when he tried to speak back. " _Please._ "

He didn't move for a while, but then let out some slur and went to the elevators. I made sure he got inside  _and_  up the floors before I went back to the counter. The groom smiled again and leaned on his side of the counter. I must have been perfectly disguised, for him to be so easily wooed. I rather believe he felt terribly alone behind his counter, but in any case, good for me. I didn't tell him otherwise.

"So… Are you who I think you are?

\- Maybe." I stayed careful. "Are you who I think you are? You certainly look like a Valiant, Friendly and Determined lad.

\- Welcome back, Volunteer," he declared, happy to meet one of his fellows. Or so he believed. "Is the man with you…

\- He's not one of us. Just family… Of a sort."

He slowly nodded, as if he'd got some deep innuendo in my words. I always found painful to talk with Volunteers. Most of them are so happy to be part of something that they almost shoot it from rooftops every time they get the opportunity to. So much for being part of a  _secret_  something. Really, I don't understand how VFD survived this far. What the hell happened to the original members and their spirit? I suppose my father and his colleagues would be spinning in their graves if they knew.  _If they had a grave._ The only comforting thought I could find was that the Arsonists were equally stupid, albeit in a different way. In any case, apart from the Baudelaire and perhaps a few old members of VFD, I don't think anyone still holds the tiniest bit of common sense. How can you be so stupid as to tell your grooms to be so oblivious with their affiliation? But I suppose what happens is some sort of an anacyclosis, some wheel spinning and we're at its worst part. Maybe one day wisdom and reasonableness will come back within VFD, but I fear there won't be much left of the Volunteers by that time. And don't ask me to be sad about it.

Anyway. At least I could turn their stupidity to my advantage, and cut down our stay as much as possible. Someone was obviously going to notice us looking around, rummaging through stuff, and the less time we spent here, the better. Plus, I felt uneasy being here again, in a brand new hotel. It was as if I could still smell the smoke and the fire that destroyed Hotel Denouement.

"Since you look like a very helpful man… Maybe you could help me?

\- Anything for an associate, ma'am.

\- So kind of you."  _Blessed be_ _his idiocy._ "I received a Volunteer Factual Dispatch a few days ago, regarding some man… Apparently brought here. Have you heard of that?

\- Well…" He looked around, as if he feared he could be heard by malevolent ears.  _Haha._ "They didn't tell me but he's been brought here to be interrogated by the Baudelaire."

My blood froze in my veins. My smile froze too, but he didn't seem to notice. He was too happy to be able to help a  _fellow Volunteer._ If the Baudelaire were inside the hotel, there was no way we could stay. If it was only about Olaf, well, too bad for him. But it wasn't. And it would ruin Lemony's cover, if he had one.  _He had, of course he had one._

"He's been moved elsewhere, but the Baudelaire are still there for a few days. If you want to ask them questions…

\- I won't disturb them, but thank you very much.

\- My name's Lenny, by the way," he told me when I turned away. "And yours?

\- Nice to meet you, Lenny."

I smiled and walked away. We had to leave. The Baudelaire were around, Lemony wasn't, we couldn't stay here. But I had no idea where Olaf was. See my problem? I'm in a much similar situation right now, to be honest. I'm staying in a hotel full of our enemies, hoping to bump into the right person – which happens to also be one of our enemy, but not the kind to want us dead. If you care, he's supposed to be able to get us passports and IDs to leave the country. How are we supposed to convince an enemy of ours to help us, you'd ask? Well, let's say we collected quite a few evidences on pretty much everyone related to VFD, both sides included. And we decided to make use of them, now that there's no point in blaming people for fires anymore. Why would we do that? There's no one left not involved with fire anyway. And there's much more important now than just trying to put the actual villains behind bars. We can live with the idea of being framed for their villainy – it's much harder to live with the idea of being killed for trying to clear our names.  _Hard to live when dead, isn't it?_

Back to my point. I took the elevator, hoping I wouldn't cross path with the Baudelaire. And obviously, when I reached the third floor, there was no Olaf in sight. I walked around, trying to see if I could find any traces of him. I didn't, until I heard rattling in a room nearby. The door wasn't locked, so I opened it. He was there, knelt in front of something I couldn't see.

"For Heaven's sake Olaf, what the hell are you doing in there?

\- While you were flirting with mister stupid groom, I did something actually useful," he retorted, waving something in his hand. "Some traces of your mysterious associate. He's…

\- Not there anymore, I can tell. The groom told me. Give me that."

I grabbed the papers he was waving around. It was a minute of an interview, probably a rough draft of what was going to be put in a file. It wasn't complete – the papers probably fell from the pile when the writer left the room. I wished I could add this minute to this memoir, but it was lost with countless others minutes and papers in a fire I'm dreading to tell you about. Everything in its own time. It was Lemony's questioning regarding who he was, and what he was doing in Caligari Carnival. His answers were at best evasive, at worst complete empty of meaning.  _Do you know of Cassandre Dupin ?_   _I have heard of her. Are you acquainted with her? By no means, no. Can you prove you're not? Can you prove I am?_  I couldn't help smiling.

"Have you found anything regarding where they took him?" I asked while stuffing the papers in my bag. "What are you looking at?

\- Stains. Your associate is a dirty man, I can't even begin to understand why you would rather have him than me, a dignified and…

\- Olaf, please, if there's nothing left, we have to leave, the Bau…"

I was walking toward him when I finally got to see the stains. It was coffee. Lemony didn't drink coffee,  _never_. He told me he had a few… Complicated memories attached to the drink, and much preferred tea. It was going from the desk to the bedside table.  _The stains._ My favourite dissimulation technic, and Lemony knew that. I had already checked the desk, it was a plain table with nothing hidden underneath. I walked to the bedside table and opened it. I was going to push it away when we heard footsteps and voices. I froze.  _It was Violet's voice._ Olaf rushed to close the door, and then rushed back to open the window. We were at the third flour – a nasty fall would probably kill us, or at least break a few limbs. But Violet and whoever was with her were clearly coming in our direction. Olaf grabbed my arm and tried to pull me to the window.

"Time to leave, Cassandre.

\- No, just a second, there's something here," I retorted, pushing him away. "He left something here.

\- How did you manage to survive with such a fool survival instinct? We need to  _move now!_

\- Well then move!"

I groaned and, while he was a tad too happily leaving me to my fate, I knocked down the table. And found what Lemony had hidden. It was a piece of paper, the same type of paper as the minute Olaf gave me. I put it in my pocket and was going to follow Olaf's path when the door opened on Violet. I was stepping over the window frame when she noticed something was wrong. I don't think she recognized me at first. All she saw was a stranger in a supposed-to-be-locked room trying to escape through the window. That's suspicious enough per se. She urged her companion to alert the security and I managed to shut the window closed while trying not to fall.

I do not suffer from vertigo, but I still don't know how Olaf managed to climb down the hotel's façade without falling. Because I did fall. Heavily. Thank god I fell in a stack of leaves, otherwise I'm not sure I would have been able to stand back quick enough to jump in Olaf's car and drive away from the mess we'd left behind. The safe place absolutely not safe, again. I didn't have the heart to look at what was happening behind us – they were probably screaming, running, trying to stop us. Too late. When they thought that maybe it would be easier to catch up with us  _in a car_ , we were already gone. I cowered on my sit, put my knees against my chest and closed my eyes. The look in Violet's eyes – the same than in Jacques' when I tried to open his cell and tear him from his gloomy fate. I gulped.

"I hope you at least found something," Olaf finally grunted. "Because you made a fool of yourself.

\- They probably didn't recognize me anyway."

_Wishful thinking._ It so happens that they  _did_  recognize me. Not immediately, but the Baudelaire are clever and it didn't take much investigation to put a name on a young woman with purple eyes – even with a stupid wig and make up on. Especially as they were interrogating a man  _about me._ What he told them about me, I can only guess. I never asked, he never said. I suppose he said he never met me, as he'd started to do in the minute.

I took a deep breath and took the paper he left in the room. It was his writing, but it was hurried. Hurried, but painfully clear.  _There is also that woman seated at school and she is always safe. Who is she not, then? What sign is she making with her fingers coming in red?_  A poem I always loved, distorted as to form a code. School, safe, not, coming. You bet I was coming. You knew, right? That I would come, whether or not you wanted me to? I smiled and gave Olaf our next destination.

"Prufrock."


	6. V - Where you don't choose troubles but troubles choose you

**V – Where you don't choose troubles but troubles choose you**

Looking back, I think going to Prufrock against Lemony's advice was one of the worst ideas I ever had. I think the only equivalent would be destroying the sugar bowl in front of a crowd of enemies… But I'm not even sure. I mean, without this terrible decision, many people would still be alive or free, or both. But again, back then I had no idea this day would be so fateful. I had no idea it would define not only my life, but also Lemony's, and Olaf's, and others, some whose name I don't even know. But they died, or at least their lives were put upside down because of what happened this day.

In my defence, I must say that it didn't start as a nightmare at all. The school was empty, completely empty, even ghostly. I don't know if you've ever been there, I think they didn't destroy it yet – though I can't tell, it's been a while since the last time I stepped in broad daylight in a place related to VFD. But if you've been, you know how gloomy the atmosphere is. The gate reads  _Memento Mori_ , and if that's not a sleazy motto, I don't know what you need. I stopped in front of this gate, in the forest of huge thumbs (that's something else,  _god_ ). Olaf grunted.

"To think I promised myself I would  _never_  come back here…

\- Last time you came here you tortured the Baudelaire," I sighed. "Don't pretend you didn't have a fun time.

\- I had to wear an awful turban all time, you're not the one getting headaches from it.

\- No one forced you to wear it to deceive the school's staff and ruin five children's lives, Olaf. Now get over yourself and help me open this gate."

It didn't take half as long as I thought, since the gate was actually… Open. Well, it had been opened by someone else before us, but we couldn't possibly know. I just thought that someone came to loot the place, though I had no idea what anyone could possibly loot in a school. Especially as most of the books were retrieved by VFD as soon as the school closed. But anyway, we walked inside the school for a while, without really knowing what we were looking for. I had no idea where Lemony could be. Inside the building? The classrooms? The cafeteria? The principal's office? In the corridors?

"You know the school better than I do, where would you hide?

\- I know many things better than you," he retorted. "The Orphan Shack, I suppose.

\- The Orphan… I can't even… Just, let's go.

\- Too close to home?

\- Shut up."

I frowned and followed him around the corridor to finally end up outside in front of the… Well,  _shack._ Aptly named, really. It was nothing but a bunch of old planks surrounding a bunch of crabs and fungus. And green and pink paint. A horrific place, really, and, irony has it, I wouldn't be surprised if it were the only building still standing. But anyway, back to our dreadful topic. We walked inside, but obviously no one was there. I was going to tell Olaf off when we both heard loud bangs outside the shacks. And screams.

I grabbed my knife,  _his knife, alright_ , and walked to the door. I can tell a gun shot from a simple bang – and it was a gun shot. Guess what? We were not alone, far from that. The school was surrounded by Volunteers and Arsonists alike, though I still don't know why exactly they came here. I suppose it was not for Lemony, since he was not recognized. Maybe something was hidden between those walls and I didn't know about it. Well, Lemony just told me he'd retrieved this something before them. Some sort of a file about every VFD students that came to the school. Hmhm, don't dream, I'm not telling you where he put it. Even I have standards.

We only went out when there was nothing to hear anymore. Olaf had a gun too, and it didn't comfort me as much as you may think. Give Olaf a gun, and someone will die – usually, it's someone I care about. We exchanged a glance and he started to run. I ran to catch up on him. We couldn't simply  _run away_. There was no way we could know what was happening, and I had no idea  _why_  they were fighting. If it was for Lemony, I couldn't run and leave him to his fate, not after what happened at Hotel Hope. Not at all, anyway.

"Where do you think you're going? We're searching for my associate!

\- You think I will risk my life for your associate?

\- Not for him. For the file!

\- You know what, Cassandre ?" He turned to face me, his gun dangerously close to me. "I'm starting to believe you're leading me on to find this so-called associate of yours. So either you have the file, or there's no file at all.

\- How would you know? You don't have the choice, Olaf."

His eyes narrowed. He waived around his gun, but didn't have time to actually threaten me – other did it for him. Shootings resume and I rushed to hide myself behind a big sign indicating the library. Instead of doing the same, Olaf shot back, without even knowing who was attacking. When I recognized the 'who', I froze and screamed.

"OLAF NO!"

But it was too late. Of course, it was too late. He did stop, but not because of me. Simply because he didn't have to shoot anymore. I rushed out of my hideout to push him away and kneel next to his victim. It was a Denouement – one of the two remaining triplets. He had a gaping wound on his stomach, and his blood quickly stained my hands and clothes when I tried to stop the blood from flooding away. Too late, again. A puddle of blood was forming under his body and he already couldn't breath anymore.

Why did I care? Well, one of them was a Volunteer. As far as I knew, a noble one. And it could have been Ernest – or Frank. How could I know? I didn't stand up, even when I realized I couldn't do anything. He was dead. Another name on my list. I turned my head to Olaf.

"Why did you do that?! Maybe it was Frank!

\- Or Ernest. He was shooting on us, in case you didn't notice." He frowned. His gun was still aimed at him – at me. "Now you empty your bag, Cassandre. If there's a file in there, I'm taking it.

\- Are you serious?! We're in the middle of a crossfire, and all you think about is a damn file?!

\- This damn file is my way out of this mess. Just hand it to me and let get this over with."

I do agree that toying with Olaf to find Lemony more easily was not the cleverest idea I ever had. The fact remains that I did manage to get closer to him  _and_  to manipulate him for quite a while. I gritted my teeth and grabbed my backpack. I could have hidden the file. That's what I was planning to do. Make him believe that there was no file at all – that I just needed help to find a friend. I could live with the mockery. And I was going to do it when I saw three men arriving behind Olaf. And when he saw one man arriving behind me. We were surrounded. And I couldn't help recognizing one of the men behind him.  _The man with a beard but no hair._ And he recognized me too, obviously.

" _Dupin._ I almost thought you vanished in thin air.

\- Well as you can see, I'm still made of flesh. How are you, since the High Court? No hypoglycaemia?

\- Mock all you want." His voice was a growl. "You're not the thing we were searching for, but at least we won't leave empty-handed. Wait, is it…

\- Glad to see you too."

Olaf turned and faced him, and earned me enough time to stand up and step back. And bump into the man behind me, so quiet that I didn't notice him – and Olaf didn't find useful to tell me he was there. He was staring at the body of the Dewey brother. Staring at  _his_  brother. I froze. He turned his eyes on me. I slowly shook my head, trying to make him understand that I had nothing to do with it.  _Lie._ But only a semi-lie, so it was fine by my standard. But he didn't understand, or didn't want to. I don't know if I was facing Ernest or Frank, but whoever he was also had a gun. And, soon enough, it was against my chest.

I don't want to think about it. I never did, really. I erased this day from my memory as much as I could, but now I have to write about it, it all comes back so easily. The blood drying on my clothes, my shirt getting rougher and rougher, the smell of it, the powder, Olaf and the Arsonists talking behind me, the time slowing down when Frank or Ernest put his finger on the trigger and clicked it. I won't say I thought about you, Lemony. The only thing I thought about was… Well, that I didn't want to die like this.

And then… And then… I know you're reading this, Ellis, I hope you are. I don't wish for you to ever understand or feel what I felt. I don't wish it for anyone, including my worst enemy. This… Burst of heat. I didn't understand, at first. I thought maybe it was how death felt like. But it wasn't  _my_  death. I stared with awe at Frank or Ernest when he collapsed in front of me, his gun still in his hand, but a hole in his chest. I don't know how I managed not to vomit. The heat on my face, my hands, my arms…

"We need you alive, Dupin," I heard behind my back. "I would ask for a thanks but you Dupin do not know of gratitude. Your father wasn't any better.

\- You don't say…

\- You would know, right?" Olaf grabbed my arm. I didn't look at him, but I could imagine his smile. Nasty smile. "Now come on, before you kill another family.

\- I didn't…

\- You did. At least that's what we'll say."

I closed my eyes for a second. Really, two more names on my list, I shouldn't have cared. Not the last ones, besides. And I don't  _really_ care. But I was, and still am, so tired of this. The same old refrain. Me, trying to make things better. And things getting even worse. My father, Jacques, Lemony, Ell… No, I can't her name. Not just yet. She deserves better than just a name amongst others. I'll come to her soon enough. I felt Olaf's grip on my arm tightening. I opened my eyes again and pushed him away to grab Frank – or Ernest's gun and aim at him. At the other Arsonists. He stopped and laughed.

"What do you think you're doing, you alone against all of us ?

\- There is no "all of you". They framed you for what happened in Hotel Denouement as much as they framed me." I looked at the man with a beard but no hair. "Maybe even more, since they didn't manage to find me.

\- Now I can be cleared, since you're there. I told you, Cassandre, that you would pay for me.

\- And I told you I would have your head." I smiled too. "That was nice seeing you, Olaf."

_I shot._ I didn't kill him, for that I'm sure. I touched his leg, I believe, and while they were all frozen in shock, I ran. Ran, ran, ran, hearing the shots and the bullets. I don't know how I manage not to die, really, but I ran towards the entrance of the school, throwing as much stuff as I could behind me to slow them down. Chairs, benches, lockers… They weren't as young as I was, and I remind you that I wounded the man with a beard but no hair back in the Valley of Four Drafts, just before his colleague's death – the woman with hair but no beard. I didn't start any fire this day. Didn't have time, I simply jumped in Olaf's car and blessed myself for having kept the keys in my pocket.

I don't know how I managed not to drive directly into some wall. My heart was pounding in my chest, there was a coppery taste in my mouth I recognized only too well and the whole world was spinning around me. I was too close to the city to be able to stop, and Olaf's car was a stolen one. The only thing I could do was… Drive. Try to distance myself from anything related to civilization. Go back to the mountains, perhaps? No, Olaf knew it was my shelter.

When I glimpsed my face in the rear-view mirror, it took me a while to be able to actually move my eyes away from my reflection. I looked undone. My cheeks, my chin, my forehead were red and it wasn't blushing. There were patches of dry blood in my hair, on my cheekbones. It was getting brown-ish. A bit of wind and it would fall in flakes all around me. Nausea tore my insides, but I didn't have time for that.

I needed a place to bury myself and do what I should have done since the very beginning of this mad rush. How stupid I was to believe I could be the one saving him. I never knew how to save anyone. So there was only one thing left for me to do. Hide, and wait for Lemony to find me and save me.


	7. VI - Where a spark is all it takes

**VI – Where a spark is all it takes**

I don't how I ended up finding the Valorous Farms Dairy – sure, Lemony had told me about it before, and I knew he'd lived there most of his infancy, raised by cheesemakers. But he never really told me  _where it was_. Well, believe me or not but I stumbled upon the said farm unwittingly. Another VFD place. I wouldn't have stopped if it hadn't been very visibly abandoned.

Well, I would have. My gas tank was empty. I was stuck there anyway. I took my bag and very carefully approached the main building. There wasn't anyone, nor anything. No cows, no sound. It was in the middle of the countryside, which means in the middle of nowhere but a livelier nowhere than the hinterlands. I picked the door's lock and made sure the place wasn't booby-trapped. It wasn't. I went to the fridge to check if there was any attempt to a Verbal Fridge Dialogue. No fresh dill, no jam, no condiment. Nothing, really, except an old bottle of milk turned sour. There was a small layer of dust quite everywhere. It'd been a while since the last time anyone came here.

If you wonder what happened, I suggest you try to find the records related to the farms. From what I know, the owners died in Hotel Denouement's fire and VFD hadn't yet reclaimed the place. Turned out that they never had the time to actually reclaim it before it turned into ashes, but I just spoiled the end of this chapter so I suppose now you don't have any reason left to read this. Though I gather you already know about all this, the news spread like wild fire.  _See what I did there?_

I didn't settle in there. I just needed to take an actual shower to get rid of the last flakes of dry blood in my hair and water to wash my stained clothes. An actual bed would be a nice extra, given that I slept in the car for two nights in a row. Truth is, I stayed a bit too long, but I managed not to get myself noticed. Truly, I'm not responsible for what happened there. It was some revenge for what happened back in Prufrock – the Arsonists considered the Volunteers responsible for the theft of the register about the alumni of the school, so they… Burnt an abandoned farm. Don't ask me, I have no idea.

I'd been there for a few days already, can't really remember, when the door opened again. It was not picked, simply opened with a key. I was upstairs, trying to get rid of the stains on my shirt. I didn't even hear the door, at first. I only heard the wooden floor cracking under someone's feet. I didn't even have the time to worry that the someone called my name. And it didn't take me a second to recognize his voice. The shirt still in my hand, I went down the stairs and found myself facing Lemony Snicket himself. I won't lie. I instantly fell better. I was screwed indeed, but now he was there and he was alive. And though I can't be sure of that, I'm almost certain he smiled when I rushed down to the entrance. He lose this smile when he saw the shirt in my hand.

"Are you hurt?

\- No I…" I realized it was still red where I'd been splashed with blood. I gulped. "It's not mine.

\- I heard about what happened in Prufrock."

I lose my smile too at this point. The way he said that, I knew what was coming. A lecture. A sermon. It felt good having him back, but I didn't miss the lectures. Especially the justified ones, because I  _indeed_  had messed up big deal. Causing, even indirectly, two brothers' death is what we would all call messing up, right? And as I said, it wasn't just about the Denouement triplets. The ramifications went deeper, further than their lives. As if it wasn't already horrible to have them dead… At this point, it was still only about them. Lemony couldn't foresee the future and I never imagined how far all of this could go. But still. I messed up, from the beginning to the end. Story of my life I suppose.

"You don't need to remind me. I still have quite clear memories of it.

\- There's nothing to joke about, Cassandre," he frowned. "If you knew about the school, then you found my message. I told you not to come.

\- Well, there were Volunteers and Arsonists roaming it. Where were you anyway?

\- Already far away. They're blaming you for the two Denouement triplets' death, you know that?

\- I didn't kill them," I groaned. "Olaf and the man with a beard…

\- That does not make any difference."

That tone. Whenever he wants to remind me of Jacques and what happened with him, he uses it. I don't know if he does it willingly or if it's just some sort of family trait, but I  _hate that_  for obvious reasons. I stared at the shirt and threw it away. Childish. I know. Well, I hope you realize I was still  _young_ , at this point. There's room to forget, given what happened to me in the space of a year and a half, but I'd only turned twenty-two. And forgot to celebrate it – you don't celebrate your birthday with Olaf, do you ? He glanced at it for a second.

"It was reckless. And useless. If I told you about your situation, it  _was not_  for you to worsen it. You realize you gave them even more reasons to chase you ? Most of them didn't care about the sugar bowl or whether you had it or not, but now it's about  _murders_!

\- Listen to yourself," I spat out. "The incredible Lemony Snicket blaming  _me_  for trying to save  _you_. Is ungratefulness a common feature with you former Volunteers?

\- Joke all you want. You're in too deep, and you're digging deeper. I told you  _I_  would find you." He walked closer. "Contrary to you, I can manage myself."

I don't know how I kept myself from slapping him. I suppose I should be glad I didn't – I'm not sure he would have stayed with me after that. Lemony is not Jacques. Not the kind of man to offer his other cheek, and not the kind of man to tire himself for the kind of woman to bite the hand that feeds. Saves, in my case. I just kept quiet and looked daggers at him.

It was getting old, being scolded for trying to help. The last two times it happened before that, it ended up in too much blood for my liking. If you're worried I'm running in circle in this matter, don't worry, I didn't try to save anyone lately. Maybe I should have but then again, I'm terrible at this game. I shook my head and walked away, paced back and forth the entrance.

"Is it too… Complicated to understand that I could be scared for you ? Knowing you were in their claws, in Hotel Hope, does it really surprise you that I was worried?" My voice was hoarse. "I fucked up, alright, I get it and I don't need you to tell me. But  _I was scared,_ for God's sake! You were in there, I was outside and I was alone!

\- Alone with Olaf.

_\- I tried to use him to find you, goddamnit!_  Is it so hard for you to put yourself in my shoes?

\- Quite, Cassandre. Quite indeed. Every time I think I understand you, every time I think I get the way you're thinking and feeling, you always end up sweeping it all aside." His voice has changed. It wasn't disapproving anymore. Just tired. Endlessly tired. "How can you so paralyzed by the mere thought of being alone, and yet able to create such a mess?"

That's the thing – I had no idea, and still have not. Maybe I act like a wounded animal. Feral. Lethal, when I feel that I'm in danger. I'm never more dangerous than when I'm threatened. You got that, I suppose? All of my great deeds were done in times of emergency and hazard. Well,  _great deeds,_  that's up for debate, but you understand what I mean. If nothing happened for a year or so, after the High Court, it's precisely because I was relatively safe. And then Lemony was taken away and I was wanted. I cracked up. And messed up. And people died. And safe places turned to dangerous places. No fire, this time… Not yet.

I didn't say anything. I had nothing to say. I wasn't sorry. If anything, I was relieved. Whether mess I had created, he would help me deal with it. That's how much I take him for granted, no need to blame me. I know. And he realized that there was nothing he could tell me to change my mind about all that. Well, he also realized he didn't come here to reprimand me, at least at first. He shook his head. You know what he wrote about this day, in his memoir ? That talking to me was like banging on a abandoned shack's door. You're not even sure you want an answer.

"Ignore me all you want, I'm not done with you." He frowned. "But I'm not here for that. You need to pack your stuff, we're leaving.

\- Leaving? But you're barely there, isn't it…

\- It was safe. No longer.

\- Is it because of…

\- No. They don't know you're here," he said, looking around. "Thank your luck for that. Now go, we can't stay long."

_Well, why did you take the time to piss me off then?_ I still think he acted nonsensically, and should have just grabbed my wrist and took me out of the farm. But Lemony works in mysterious ways, I suppose. I complied, though. Most of my stuff was at ground level, including my bag, our file and almost all of my clothes. I also had collected a few things from what I found in the farm itself. The only thing that remained upstairs were my memoir, a few papers and some stained clothes from the Prufrock fight.

I was stuffing everything I needed in my bag when we heard a window shattering. We all know what that means, right? Lemony groaned a curse and gestured me to come. I gave up on the shirt I was trying to fit inside my bag and rushed at his side. More windows shattered. I was going to run upstairs when he stopped me, shushing me. I frowned.

"I have stuff left upstairs, I need to grab it," I retorted whispering. "I can't leave it…

\- Can't you smell the smoke? It's too late, Cassandre, we need to leave before we're…"

He couldn't finish. It was the living room's window's turn to shatter and spew a single, tiny match. Whoever did that, and to this day I still don't know for sure, they were truly dedicated to their mission. We didn't even try to put out the match. The armchair it touches instantly caught fire and its velvet instantly began to shrivel. I can't say I was scared. Fire and I are old pals – the kind of pals that see other randomly and a bit too regularly for their taste. Well, for my taste, I can't speak for the fire.

You know, I really like to say that VFD is full of incompetent clots. I know you're getting used to it and you probably have realized how biased I am, but really,  _who_  in a world full of zealots Arsonists builds  _an actual farm_  in wood?  _Who_  thinks it's a good idea to use the most flammable material of all to build one of their main buildings?  _Volunteers._ Volunteers think that. I know I'm an example of bad faith, but you need to grant me that: I have reasons to be.  _Anyway, back to the point._

I was still staring at the stairs, and Lemony was still trying to stop me from climbing them. I couldn't care less about the clothes and the paper, but there was something else upstairs. Something that was  _way too important_  to be left there, especially if Arsonists were around. My memoir, not this one obviously. The one found by the Baudelaire in the ruins of the farm, miraculously left untouched by the flames. It was barely finished, I was polishing it before sleeping and I had left in the drawer of the bedside table.

This memoir, if you haven't read it, and truly, if you haven't, why are you even reading this, is my answer to my enemies' indictment about what happened before and during the High Court events. From where I stand now, this whole memoir seems very vain, especially as I didn't read it in years. I didn't even think anyone would read it and believe me – except Lemony, and the Baudelaire, maybe. Now that I'm writing  _this_  memoir, I regret losing it to the flames. I wish I could add it to this one, so that you could read it, Ellis. But I suppose that if you found this volume, you probably found the other one.

But in any case, I couldn't get myself to abandon it. Not just yet, so I managed to get myself out of Lemony's grip and rush up the stairs. I don't know what I expected, but it was obviously already burning.  _Arsonists know about ladders, I know, it's crazy._ Stupid as I was, and still am don't worry, I was going to cut through the smoke and the flames to take it, but then again Lemony intervenes. He encircled my chest with his arms and held me back.

"For God's sake Cassandre, what are you doing?! Do you  _actually_  want to die?!

\- My memoir is in the bedside table,  _I need_ to retrieve it!

\- To hell with that, you don't need it," he groaned. He pulled me down the stairs while I was struggling and cursing him. "We're leaving,  _now._

\- NO! I can't let them have it, not them, it can't just…

\- They're destroying the building, not searching it. Leave it, you'll…

\- All my life is in there, Lemony!"

Laugh if you want. At this point I don't even care, it surely sounded a bit too desperate and dramatic for a mere manuscript of a bad story. But it wasn't just a manuscript of a bad story for me: it was the manuscript of  _my_  story. My story,  _mine_ , the only thing I could claim as mine in this world, the only thing I had left.  _Of course_  it wouldn't disappear, but I had put it into words, into ink on pages. I'd made it true, solid. My past was in this book. I couldn't let my past burn, could I? What would I be left with?

There was no such thing as a future for me. My present was an unending succession of dismay and demise, escape and other escape. But at least I had a past. And it was glorious, in a way. Jacques was in there. And my father. And the life I had, before all that. I couldn't just let it burn. Lemony quieted and turned to face me. His hands grabbed my shoulder, more gently than before. Everything was burning, smoke was filling up the air around us – but he stopped and talked to me. Because only he could understand what I was feeling at this moment.

"Let it burn, Cassandre. It's already gone.

\- It's all I have. My memories." My throat tightened. "I can't leave it here, I need it with me.

\- It's just a bunch of pages. You are not in there." Something exploded. Too close for his liking. "They are not in there. Believe me, they're not.

\- You didn't read it. Not in whole, I wanted you to know…

\- You'll tell me. We'll write it again. Alright?"

_Alright._ We didn't, for the record. At first because we didn't have the time, nor the luxury to spend hours writing another memoir, and then because… Because I didn't feel it was useful. If you wonder what happiness does to a person, it does  _that_. It makes you forget what you thought was important, but turns out to be very,  _very_  superfluous. Like writing again a terrible memoir retelling terrible events. And if you wonder what  _non_  happiness does to a person, it does  _that_. Realizing that what you rejected as unimportant is finally  _very, very_  important. Like writing my story again, in case I don't have enough time to tell it myself to the only one who matters now.

So I nodded. I grabbed my bag and followed him to the main door. It wasn't locked. As Lemony said, they weren't trying to kill anyone and they wouldn't come back to search for anything. They wanted the farm to turn into ashes, just like the Valley of Four Drafts Headquarter turned to ashes, just like Hotel Denouement did, just like every places more or less closely related to VFD did. He pushed the door and created an in-draught that revived the flames around us that suddenly redoubled. The heat was slowly turning intolerable, so he grabbed my wrist again and he started to run. And so I followed him.

It took a spark to light one of my last fire to date, and to let my past burn behind me. My memoir didn't, I already said so and you probably don't need me to tell you since it'd been more or less published by the Baudelaire. I don't know how exactly they found it but the fact remains that the original is in their hands.

Usually protagonists of story say they don't look back, when they leave a burning building or their past behind (notice the zeugma, please). Well, just this once, I wasn't this cliché. I actually looked back. The flames were already engulfing the building, surrounding it, flowing for the broken windows. I paused when we reached the car, hidden behind a shed that wasn't yet burning, and stared at the dark smoke that rose to the sky.

When I heard Lemony calling my name, I sat next to him, threw my bag on the back seats, and once again, we fled a burning place. I would much prefer to say it was the last time we did, but it wasn't. Next time would be sadder, ghastlier, and more dreadful and terrible than anything we both knew.  _I'm so sorry, Lemony. Again._


	8. VII - Where nothing can go the way it should

**VII – Where nothing can go the way it should**

I suppose I should have been a bit clearer from the beginning. Seven chapters, and you still don't know for sure  _why in hell_  I am still writing about my life. Well, I suppose you know, Ellis, since you're the reason why, but most people don't even know you exist… Yet. I hope it will last, at least you're not another weapon to be turn against us by our enemies. But anyway. Let's talk about you, then. For the first time in these pages.

I can't blame those who ignore your existence today. Though I was supposed to be the most involved in your case, I ignored your existence until… Well. What I'm going to write about now. I shouldn't say that, that's not something you're supposed to even think, but it wasn't exactly a good day, nor a good news. At least at first. Well, it didn't become a good thing until quite a long time, to be honest. And it's still not now. That sounds bad, doesn't it? Sorry, Ellis. You didn't break into our life at the right moment, but I'm afraid there wouldn't have been  _any_  right moment anyway, so I guess you did come at the right time. In fact, you're much like this interesting piece of mail Lemony often talks about – it's interesting, but not always welcome, or even good. Well, Ellis, you were this piece of mail.

Piece of mail we realized we would receive a few days after what happened in the Valorous Farms Dairy. We had retrieved Lemony's taxi in Mortmain Mountains and, believe me or not, it was still working. Our plan was to let things settle down a bit, and then lure the Baudelaire somewhere to explain to them what was happening, and try to cleanse our names, at least with them. Turned out they didn't need us to lure them to realize what really happened, since they ended up finding my memoir – but anyway. That was the plan.

And since the Arsonists were conscientiously burning every places related to VFD, we decided to stay a bit in a place they'd already burned: the ruins of the Valley of Four Drafts' headquarter. There weren't many rooms that still had their four walls and their roof, but we settled in what used to be a meeting room. We laid mattresses on the floor and… Well, we made do.

I don't know what Lemony did of his time. I think he scoured the remains of the library to take every book that was a least readable. Or not, and simply collected the remaining pages. What I did was adding pages to our files about what happened in Prufrock, and the Valorous Farms Dairy. We hoped we would be able to go back there to collect a few evidences to add as appendix, but in the meantime, I needed to write everything down while everything was fresh in my mind.

But now that Lemony was back and I could  _relax_  and stop running from point A to point B and from point B to point A restlessly, I actually didn't feel good. I was tired, and often nauseous. At first I thought it was the backlash of all the anguish I had piled up, running after him, but it could only go so far. I couldn't eat anything without feeling like I would vomit it – at best, because I  _did_  vomit most of what I ate. Don't ask me how, but Lemony didn't realize that. We didn't really get to speak together, anyway, and neither he or I wanted to go back to what happened while he was away. So we simply spoke about what he found, or what I wrote. Not about how we both felt about the situation.

Sometimes I wonder why we stuck together like this. It's not as if we had anyone else to go to, but it's really a mystery to me  _why_  we didn't simply part as we always did before, and waited for things to calm down on our own. Now that the Arsonists were back, I was no longer the  _number one public enemy_. Officially, anyway. I'm quite certain both Olaf and the Baudelaire still followed me, but at least the newspapers left me alone. I didn't really need to stay with him, and whatever his conscience could tell him, he didn't need to stay either. But we stayed together, and really, that's one of the best idea we've ever had.

It's only after a few days of intense nausea and tiredness that I started to actually wonder what was going on with me. Stress was part of my life – still is, really, and it'd never done this to me before. I hadn't eaten anything weird and we were settled since enough time for me to have relaxed. I wasn't even exercising or anything, just typing on an old typewriter. At this point, I decided to make use of the minimal training in medicine that my father's teachers offered me back then, and explored the infirmary. It was mostly left untouched, and we used it as a bathroom. We'd taken most of the stuff that was still there, bandages, pain-killers and antiseptic, but we left everything that was too hard to use or unknown to us, or too specific to be useful, including a huge book.  _Medical compendium of common and rare symptoms, and their origins._

Needless to say that nausea and tiredness led me to hundred of pages, going from gastroenteritis to ulcer, including various cancers and orphan diseases. Lucky me, none of them matched my symptoms and general state. I was going to give up, frustrated, and went through the last pages without reading them. I sighed, ran a hand across my face and was ready to slam the book closed when I realized what was written on the pages in front of my eyes.  _Nausea, tiredness, mood swings, breast pain_ (since you must know everything),  _period irregularity._ I didn't even need to read which entry I was staring at, and I don't think I need to tell you either.

I stared at the two pages, blankly. My mind was doing dozen of things at the same time. Counting the weeks, the months. Measuring the lateness. Wondering it is was even possible. Realizing it was. Understanding that the timing was tight, but that it coincided with the evening when Lemony found me, in the motel. Trying to process the information. Failing. My brain then went on autopilot, and I simply did what it ordered me to. Go to the closet, open the drawers. Search for the test. Find it. Take it off the package. Do it. Wait. Shake it. Wait again. Look at it. Two bars. Check. Two bars. Check again. Still two bars. Shake it. Still two bars. Breath. Once. Twice. Thrice. Deeply. Repeat.

It doesn't make sense, does it? That such a natural, normal thing could happen to me, to us? That we were reduced to these things that punctuate anyone's life, too. Lemony told me he sometimes thought about it, but it  _never_  crossed my mind. It wasn't for lack of knowing how these things work, thank you, but as I said, it was too simple, too natural in my too complicated, too unnatural life. But in the end, it didn't make a change, did it? Nothing is too natural or too simple for anyone.  _Including death._ And that.

I didn't move for a while. I had no idea what to do. I didn't even know what to think about it at first. The only thing I knew was that I needed Lemony. Of course I did, as always. So I went to the library, slowly. The test was in my hand, hidden in my too-long sleeve. He didn't seem to notice me at first, or simply didn't think useful to look at me. I stood there awkwardly, trying to come up with some clever remark, or some joke. None came. I was left with my silence and my inability to process anything.

"Did you need anything?

\- I… Are you busy?

\- Not really. Except if you consider the vain attempt to save burnt books a as busying activity, and I'm not sure it can…

\- Lemony," I cut short. "Please."

He stopped messing with the ruined books, and finally turned to face me. I guess he was smiling at first, but this smile had already vanished when he looked at me. I wasn't discreet, was I? He now knew I was hiding something, and that this something was important enough for me to be serious about it. That was striking, considering my usual take on things. He made a few steps toward me, as if he was scared I might explode or spontaneously burn. If only it was just that. We could deal with a few more flames. But it wasn't embers inside of me. And I had no idea, truly, how to tell him.  _Hey, Lemony, guess what? We're gonna be burdened with a baby in a few months!_  Doesn't sound too good, right?

So I handed him the test. He took it. And stared at it for as long as I did, maybe even longer. But his face didn't really show anything. Only pensiveness. I could almost see the shiny gears of his mind revolving, and turning, and steaming. Processing, faster and easier than mine did. He took a deep breath, swallowed and raised his eyes to meet mine.

"Is it possible? I mean, is it…

\- Yes.

\- Alright." He repeated it, softly.  _Alright._ "I'll only ask you once, Cassandre. Are you sure it's mine?

\- Yes. There's no way… It can't be anyone else."

Well, it  _could_  have been someone else – and what an incredible someone else, indeed, but the timing was off. And I wasn't even sure it happened.  _Alcohol does that to your mind, kids, don't do that._ So he couldn't have been, right? It was just a very theoretical possibility. The only thing that made sense… It was him.

Him. His child. His child – my child. Ours. Suddenly, it was as if a rubber band had snapped in my head. My thoughts suddenly rushed and I got it – I understood, finally, what it really meant. My head started spinning and I patted around to find the nearest seat. Finding none, I slid against the nearest wall and sat on the floor, heart beating hard, blood pulsing under my temples. My throat was tightening, I was struggling to even breath.  _A baby, hell, a baby!_

Lemony sat next to me, holding up but god knows how. Probably because he didn't really have the choice. He couldn't burst into tears, have a panic attack, run in circle screaming – not when I was myself basically doing the three things at the same time. He put his arms around my shoulders and kept quiet for a while. Needless to say, it didn't change anything. Understanding how screwed we were finally wasn't such a good idea, all things considered.

And still he didn't say anything. Looking back, it's one of the very few times I managed to keep Lemony quiet. Have him speechless. Really, if you ever got to know him, you _know_  how much of a success that is. And if you don't, you must know that  _it is_ a success, though I could care less back then.

"Say something," I pleaded. "Anything.

\- What do you want me to say, Cassandre?

_\- Anything_! You always have things to say,  _so for god's sake,_  say something!

\- Well I can say that it's… Terribly not timely. That it's also terribly unexpected. And that it complicates things in a rather terrible way." I was going to speak but he interrupted. " _But._ But I can also say that we've been through worse. You did kill your father. And my brother is dead, and my sister nowhere to be found.

\- Lemony that's…" I couldn't help chuckling through tears. "That's an awful way to comfort someone. Really that's…

\- Well, we also survived a few fires, including my former house, yours, Hotel Denouement…"

And I chuckled, chuckled, and instead of jolting in sobs, my shoulders jolted in laughter. Nervous laughter, but laughing is better than crying, even when it's just another way to let out despair and hopelessness. And I curled up in his arms, and he closed them on me. I know what you're waiting for – I know you want me to get all sappy. And I will please you for once. At this moment, as I was laughingly crying, or cryingly laughing, as you wish, the world was very, very small and very, very simple. For a few seconds we were a normal couple, an actual couple, with couple problem and a couple of couple problems. I was a pregnant woman, he was an awkward future father trying to make sense to all that. I wasn't an Arsonist, I wasn't wanted, I wasn't a murderer, and he wasn't dead to the world.

But I hear you, saying that it can only go so far. We were not a normal, actual couple, and I wasn't just a pregnant woman and he wasn't just an awkward future father. We were that, and we were also running away from the world, trying to make sure the coast was clear before running again. But I didn't care, god I didn't care at all. The world was small for a second. And simple.

"So I suppose we can survive a baby. I can't recall anyone killed by a baby, let alone an unborn one. According to my information, they're much like puppies or kittens. Time-consuming, drooling and screaming puppies, but…

\- I get it, Lemony." I shook my head. His prattle had the merit of soothing my panic. A least a tad. "Puppies.

\- We'll manage. We still have time before it gets complicated to…"

_Run._ He didn't say it. He didn't need to. It did sooth me – but it all came back. He could speak of puppies, he could go on rambling speeches about drooling babies, it didn't change anything. We were still runaways, and we had to run as far as we could. But at some point we'd have to stop and find some place to hide. And stay in there for as long as possible. And hope for the best, this best being no one dies, the baby grows older and older, and everything ends the better in the best of all worlds.

Except we  _were not_  in the best of all worlds. I actually think I found myself in the worst world possible, at least in my perspective, and that I can simply not escape it. Spoiler alert, I never escaped it until now. Every time I think I may have found a way out, the door slams in my face and I'm back in my own personal hell. Lemony's hell too – it isn't any easier for him than for it is for me. But at this point I was the one with a baby growing in my belly and Arsonists clinging onto me.

"Before it gets complicated to run," I sharply finished. "Running is what we do, Lemony. What will happen if we can't do it anymore? If a baby slows us down, makes us stop somewhere and pray for no one to find us? How long do you think we'll survive, if we have to hole up in some godforsaken place?

_\- When._

\- What?

\- Not if, when." His voice was the calmest. As if we weren't talking about our survival. "Except if you plan on solving the problem in a definitive way, but I'm not sure you're not past the legal delay. And I'm not letting you butcher yourself.

\- And you think that changes anything? That  _it will_  happen? That  _we will_ have to stop, pray for no one to find us and hole up somewhere?! We've only survived this far because we were able to disappear from a day to another, if they decide to have our heads we won't stand a chance if we can't run  _and we won't be able to!"_

I suddenly jumped on my feet, tearing myself from his arms. I look maniac, don't I? Well, I never said I was totally sane, did I? That would be  _such a lie._ Someone sane does not start fires, and it does not go in a room on fire to find a diary. Someone sane does not flip realizing she's pregnant. A sane person in my position would be upset, disturbed perhaps, and scared. Not freaking out. Especially the way I did, cackling and crying, pulling my own hair and pacing the ruined library. And all he did was staring blankly. That's what makes me realize how much he'd come to know me. Trying to stop me would have infuriated me, adding anger to despair, fear and distress.

He stood up when I stopped. He didn't hug me again, not just yet. He simply walked closer, made sure I wasn't going to slap him or worse, and put his hands on my tensed shoulders. His grip was firm, yet serene. His mind was probably already conceiving a plan, some scheme, probably a travel map to the border. His superior mind – so superior in every single ways to mine. And clearer too.

"Don't drown yourself in a puddle, Cassandre.

\- You call that a puddle?

\- Yes I do. A muddy, rather deep puddle, the kind you wouldn't want to step in fearing for your leg's life," he completed. "But a puddle all the same. You realize it is supposed to be a great new, right?

\- For normal people, yes. I suppose.

\- Let's just say we are partly normal then."

Easier said than done. Later on he would admit how scared he was, how distressed and terrified he was. But at this point he simply looked calm, composed, everything I was not. I shook my head slowly, and rested it on his shoulder. And I closed my eyes. There wasn't any alternative. As he thought, I was past the legal delay and there was no way we could get rid of the baby without endangering my life – and there was no point in trying to save ourselves by basically risking my life, right? As he thought, we had no alternative. And I had no idea what to do, what to say, except panic.

So I made another very good decision, one of the very few I ever made. I decided to let him do what he thought necessary. I decided to hand him everything I hadn't yet handed him. My fate, my survival, my life, these three things I'd been holding unto for more than a year, I handed them all to him, with a little bonus that wasn't planned – you, Ellis. You and I, we owe our entire lives to your father. Not that I would ever tell him, but I think he already knows. Lemony Snicket always knows everything. That's why I trusted him with my life - and yours.


	9. VIII - Where there is nothing left but you

**VIII – Where there is nothing left but you**

We didn't stay long in the Valley of Four Drafts headquarter, partly because Lemony had retrieved everything he could from the ruined library, partly because now we had to run as far as we could, as fast as we could. As for the Baudelaire, we didn't talk about it but implicitly decided that they could wait for a few months. The situation wouldn't get any better, but neither he or I could risk anything with VFD for the moment. I couldn't for an obvious, though yet mostly invisible reason. He couldn't for the same reason. And another one, that I don't like to admit – phrase that here means that writing that he feared I would get myself killed for good if he ever left me alone, and admitting it would have probably happened, is not something I do all day long.

We hoarded everything we thought remotely useful in the car, and while Lemony was trying to fit a few more things inside the boot, I tried to understand where we were supposed to go. He'd drawn a path on an old map of the region but it didn't seem to follow any official route, but rather seemed to weave around the different mountains. I had no idea how we were suppose to drive a car without a road, but our destination was clear: Lemony wanted to cross the border. We wouldn't be any safer out of the country, Volunteers  _do_  travel when they have to and Arsonists even more so, but at least it would take them a reasonable amount of time to understand we were gone.

"How are we supposed to drive if there's no road?" I eventually asked when Lemony stopped messing around the car. "I know you former old Volunteers have skills that I can't imagine but…

\- There's a road. Just because it's not written on there does not mean it does not exist.

\- Well, you would know." I smiled. "Just because you're dead to the world does not mean you are.

\- Mutadis mutandis. Now come, unless you want to stay around ashes and burned books."

I was expecting a smile, but all I got was a very serious, very grave look. I wasn't the only one worried by the situation. The only difference was that he was the one dealing with our escape, not I. I already wrote it, I believe, but he was as scared as I was, at this point. And he didn't know much more about our future than I did. He faked it well enough for me to go along with his plan – that takes an actually good actor to manage to woo me this much. Maybe I just wanted very bad to believe me, though.

I took the map, grabbed my backpack and shot a last look at the headquarters. I never came back there. It has since been reclaimed by VFD, and the last Dispatch we found seemed to indicate that it's been rebuilt. It's not as if we've tried our luck back when we were in the country, and after the mess it was to find fake papers to flee, I can care less about the state of Mortmain Mountains. They are nice enough from this side of the border – don't dream. I am not writing where we are hiding.

Lemony drove for a while in complete silence. I didn't know who to say, though I had many things to say. We still hadn't talked about Prufrock, let alone of what happened to him while I was trying not to get myself or more people killed. And I still hadn't talked about him about the jazz disks. And I had no idea why there were so many people in Prufrock. As I was staring outside, trying to find a clever way to engage conversation, I heard him sigh and scoff. I turned my head, surprised, to find him looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

"What?" I was trying to feign ignorance, though I already know he knew. "Something funny that I missed?

\- It depends what you mean by funny. If funny means a certain young woman at the back of a car, trying to find some smart comeback to start a rather painful and awkward conversation about a rather painful and awkward time she spent…

\- Alright, alright, I get it," I groaned. "You just said we were not done with the Prufrock incident, and I have a complicated history with things left unsaid. But if you want to forget about it, I'm fine with the idea. Being scolded is not something I especially like."

I frowned and turned away. It's not that I  _wanted_ him to resume his lecture, thank you very much but no. But it is only after Jacques' death that I realised how many things we didn't tell each other, either because we did not have the time or because we dared not. Given where our mutual silence led us, I was not keen on trying again. Especially as Lemony and I were not supposed to leave each other for quite a while.

I am usually not the biggest person, I think you realize that now, but I was at this very moment. I took the lead, and bent to rummage through my bag. At the very bottom, where the sugar bowl used to be before I destroyed it and started this mess, I found the Duke Ellington disk case. I cleared my throat, trying to look more confident than I felt, and I handed it to him. He took it, glanced at it and a small smile appeared on his lips.

"I was wondering where it was. I didn't take you for a sentimental lady.

\- Wait, you…

\- I found the taxi where you left it and retrieved everything. The only thing that wasn't there was this particular disk case." He put it on the seat next to him. "It never crossed my mind that you could have it.

\- I'm not some cold monster, you know." I sighed. "I couldn't sleep. It soothed me. When Olaf came back and unwittingly helped me go after you, I figured that at least I would have that.

\- A jazz record?

\- Something from you."

I probably blushed, though I tried my best to hide it. We are not ones for lengthy and syrupy-sweet declarations of affection, let alone love. I couldn't find the words to say what he was, and what I was, and what we were, and he didn't seem to be willing to help, so those three words, though obviously not, were enough. They were enough for him. His eyes in the rear-view mirror stared at me with a tenderness he only too seldom shows.

"What I said, back in the Valorous Farms Dairy," I continued. "It wasn't just to shut you. I was terrified that anything could happen to you because of me. So I… Fucked up, and the Baudelaire saw me, and the Denouement triplets are gone, but it was all…

\- I know, Cassandre." He cut me, with a voice too soft for someone as angered as he was by what happened. "People more skilled than I am in medicine would probably call that trauma and overreaction and they would be right. But I know.

\- Lemony…

\- I thought my message would be enough for you to stop running amok and simply settle somewhere, but I should have known better." There was a silent. He was staring at the road. "I should have known you better. I suppose I just asked myself the wrong question again."

I never knew what question he asked himself, so I can only guess. Just forget what I just wrote – well, I didn't  _just_ write it, I wrote it two weeks ago and I happened to have talked about it with the most concerned party. He told me what this question he asked himself was  _how he could make sure I was safe._ And it was the wrong question. Even back then, the only right question was  _how could he make sure_ we _were safe._  But I suppose he couldn't possibly ask himself such a question back then. He had no reason to believe there was a  _we_  to protect before… This.

There is a good reason why he didn't think there was a  _we_ , though, and I am this reason. The game we used to play, back before the Baudelaire broke into my, and then his, life again – it was a very one-sided one. When he came back, it was usually to stop me from endangering myself. I'd never done such a thing for him, partly because I had no way to know where he was, let alone what he did, when he'd decided not to be found. So how could he imagine that I could care about him as much as he cared about me?

The silence lingered, and it was a strange silence. It wasn't painful or awkward. This kind of silent echoes like the cutleries during a nice dinner : it is satisfying to hear, because it either means that everyone is enjoying their meal, or that everyone understand each other so completely that there is no need for pleasantries and hollow comments on the weather or the last arson. Obviously neither Lemony nor I were eating anything, but the situation was quite the same – silence was our way to communicate. Still is, though you tend to break this silence, Ellis, whether you consider yourself bored or tired, or hungry, or angry for no reason.

"I am sorry to had to go through all this." His voice sounded sad, as it too often sounds. Sad, and jaded. "And I'm not just talking about Prufrock.

\- Spending days with Olaf again didn't bring back nice memories, indeed," I tried to jest. I knew what were heading, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. "Though it was…

\- I am not talking about the few weeks you spent alone. I'm sorry you had to go through this series of unfortunate events, and I'm sorry that it does not seem to be ending.

\- I am dragging you in it, so you may as well feel sorry for yourself.

\- I do very much." He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. And his eyes were sad and tired. "The world used to be quiet and safe. I wish you'd known that time."

I couldn't help smiling. I did know a few times where the world was quiet and safe. Before my life turned to this unending succession of disasters and suspicious fires, back when my father was still my father and my greatest worry was my typewriter, left just near the door before a journey to the Hinterlands. I think I got a glimpse of that time Lemony was talking about then – a quiet, simple world, where everything made perfect sense though I had no idea it did. And then, there was Jacques, and the time we spent together. Nothing made sense, but somehow it made perfect sense that I didn't. And I didn't care that much, because all that mattered was that I was with a clever, noble man, everything I still thought I could be.

But was it really quiet and safe? War was brewing back when my piano teacher was my worst enemy, and I was tainting myself already whilst in Jacques' arms. The more I live in this wretched world, the more I wondered if this golden age Lemony still dreams about ever existed. The adult of yesterday, though now dead, were the founders and the spawners of this broken world, of the broken VFD. And still they are the one people looked up to. And I'd realized that already, back in Lemony Snicket's car, distraught and pregnant, on the lam and trying not to get myself or the baby's father, who happened to be said car's driver, killed. So I shook my head and I stared back.

"Has the world ever been quiet? Has it ever been safe? Or is it just another VFD fable?

\- I don't know. Some may want to believe such quietness and safety could be found again.

\- Do you?" I only seldom heard Lemony so weak, so fragile. The situation was taking its toll on him too. "I wish I could. But it just seems that the world was never quiet, and will never be quiet. I forgot how it was before. Or maybe I don't want to remember.

\- I used to think that, once our enemies defeated, there would be way to bring it all back. But…

\- It's all gone."

He nodded faintly. His brother, his sister, though we didn't know back then that she wasn't just hiding, his family, the organization he believed to be virtuous, the woman he loved. My father, Jacques, my wasted innocence and everything I took for granted. There is nothing to bring back – everything is gone. And there's only him left. And me. And all the brokenness inside of the both of us, and the holes left by the missing pieces.

That's the thing, really. At some point you realize you've been fighting all this time for nothing else than mere survival. And that the things you lost along the way aren't coming back. The things and the people – the people, especially, they're not coming back simply because your enemies are defeated. At the end of the fight, you simply find yourself alone, wondering why you fought so hard for so little.

It took us years to accept that this file we've put so much time, so much efforts into, this godforsaken files so many died for, had to go too. That there was no point in fighting a losing fight anymore. That everything that happened had happened, that all the people that died were dead, and that our names are now doomed and forever stained. That no one would listen to what we have to say anyway. It still hurt to think that all this blood was spilled in vain. That VFD, whatever this name means now, has won, that the Arsonists took over.

It took us years, but we already knew that if we wanted to survive, we would have to give up the fight for VFD at some point. Just not now. Somehow we both felt that though VFD was beyond saving, we could still save our names and put an end to this mascarade it has turned into. At least once things would have calmed down.  _Spoiler alert : they never did._ How could they ? There were no members of the noble side of VFD left, there were just goons and stupid so-called Volunteers left. Soon enough we would understand that they were not just stupid – they were also controlled by the Arsonists.

I didn't plan on being so dramatic.  _For once._ But I think… I think this conversation is important. We were on the run, trying to reach the border as fast as possible to put ourselves out of the battleground. We were at our weakest, Lemony especially given that I am never  _really_  strong anyway. And as we were driving toward the unknown, everything we were leaving behind were coming back to haunt us. And again, Lemony especially. What did I leave behind, except dreadful memories and too much blood for any sane person's liking? Lemony was leaving everything he had clung unto all these years. Given up the fight he was leading ever since he came back from his unwilling exile, and all that for what? A distraught, weak, pregnant woman with dreadful memories and too much blood for any sane person's liking on her hands.

"Jacques believed VFD could be saved. And Kit too, otherwise she wouldn't have accepted to take you as an apprentice." He was talking, but I wasn't sure he was expecting me to listen. He was just talking. "Now Jacques is dead and Kit is God knows where. There is no Denouement left. No Answhistle. The Quagmire are lost to the Great Unknown. The Baudelaire are lost to their goodwill. Every safe places have been destroyed. Our codes, our mottos now are synonymous with villainy and treachery.

\- Maybe it is time to let VFD go.

\- You always wanted it to fall." He chuckled bleakly. "You didn't live what we all lived together.

\- I didn't. I believed Jacques when he said a golden age was awaiting, and I believed my father's notes." I leaned toward his seat and slowly, cautiously, wrapped my arms around his shoulders. "I didn't want it to fall, it wanted  _me_  to fall. And now it wants the both of us to fall. Let it go, Lemony. Everything is gone but you."

I tightened my grip and leaned my head against the back of his seat. I suddenly felt very lonely and I sensed him being as lonely as I was. Lemony never gave up on VFD. He never let it go, he just pretends he did. He was never able to look away.  _Look away from this sheet and find us a place to sleep._ I suppose it is thanks to people like him that, though faded, the idea of a noble VFD remains. There must be some of his former colleagues left. If they are in the same state as he is regarding VFD, then I have to applaud whoever devised the apprenticeship methods. And you have to applaud too, because you probably were indoctrinated too. In your ways. And it worked too goddamn well.

A VFD poem goes like this:  _man hands out misery to man, it deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can and don't have any kids yourself._  A wise poem, perhaps the only wise thing about VFD, and I'm sorry to admit that I have not followed the last advice. I got out as early as I could. It didn't have time to imprint, engrave me, with all the ideas that there was nothing good outside the Volunteers and the safe places, and the codes and the books, and the nobility. Like many things in VFD, they all turned to ashes and now taste bitter to me. And painful to him. He wishes I'd known what it used to be – I wish he never got to know it.


End file.
